


‘Tain’t Nobody’s Bizness If I Do

by jos_k



Series: The Lesbian Adventures of Tasha Yar [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Mentions of Escaping Rape Gangs, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29767908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jos_k/pseuds/jos_k
Summary: Tasha Yar, newly appointed to the USS Enterprise, will do anything to avoid talking about her past. Unexpectedly docked at Starbase 36 for several days, Tasha spends her nights with Crewman Jinella Flores, a mechanic on the starbase. Uncomfortable with their increasing intimacy, Tasha avoids a night out with Jin by scheduling an inventory. What she intended to be a quiet night counting phasers, however, turns out to be a time travel adventure, as she travels back to the 23rd century where she meets Dr. Leonard McCoy on an entirely different Enterprise. They are swept even further back in time, to Chicago 1929. And together, they must find a way back home.(Please see Series description for canon changes.)
Series: The Lesbian Adventures of Tasha Yar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187801
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Backwater Blues

_When it rains five days and the skies turn dark as night_

_When it rains five days and the skies turn dark as night_

_Then trouble's takin' place_

_In the lowlands at night_

  
  


***

**_Starbase 36, Beta Quadrant_ **

_Desperate cries pierce the cruel night. Her heart races, pounding its fear into her ears, but driving her mind into focus. Her breath catches. The screaming goes on for some time until it stops suddenly. Then her instinct to survive overcomes her fear. She will not be next. Making no sound, controlling every movement and every breath, she waits. Invisible._

Tasha opens her eyes, inhaling sharply. Sitting up onto her elbows, she takes a hasty, guarded look at her surroundings. When the bedsheet falls from her shoulders, goosebumps form as the air makes contact with the thin line of sweat covering her body. She shivers. She takes a deep breath. She can still smell the burning flesh from the rape gangs torturing their victims filling her nostrils, her body paralyzed with fear and the instinct to survive. As she begins to reacclimate to her current surroundings, her shoulders relax. 

She pushes the memories down, swallowing hard as she clenches her teeth. Her jaw is sore. Taking another, longer breath, Tasha reorients herself to the present moment. She is not on Turkana IV. She is not the scared and helpless child hiding from the monsters in the dark. _Inhale._ She is Lieutenant Natasha Yar, Security Chief of the Federation’s flagship, the USS Enterprise. _Exhale_ . She is on leave on Starbase 36. _Inhale._ Slowly, the grip of the past loosens with each breath. Her senses return to the here and now. 

Crewman Jinella Flores, who is sleeping peacefully next to her, makes an unintelligible grunt before changing positions, her thick black curls bouncing lightly as she turns her head. Tasha tenderly caresses her soft bronze skin before glancing at the clock by the bed. _0435_ . _That’s practically sleeping in_ , she thinks wryly. The nightmares were kind to her tonight. She has been waking like this for almost a month now, only usually much earlier. It’s always the same this time of year. When her parents were killed. She knows if she asks Doctor Crusher for sleeping medication one more time, she will insist that she sees Counselor Troi. _No thank you._ She’s had enough of Federation counselors. 

She sighs and positions herself underneath the covers again, nuzzling Jin’s sturdy frame, taking solace in her closeness. The dreams are usually worse when Tasha isn’t in her own bed. But there is something about Flores, her broad shoulders and arms wrapped around her torso perhaps, that wards off the night terror for just a little while longer. Instead of finding it reassuring, Tasha finds this fact deeply unsettling, turning the comfort sour. She is not a woman who feels at ease feeling, well, at ease. 

She met Flores just over a year ago, on her last commission. Crewman Flores, a technician on the Starbase, was running routine maintenance on her ship when they met. Collided actually. Tasha was late for a Parrises square game, thinking about the impression it would make on her commanding officer, who also happened to be team Captain, when she ran headlong into Jin and her assortment of diagnostic tools. When she looked backed after a blushing, rushed apology, she caught Jin openly leering at her ass, fit snugly in her sporty shorts, as she ran off. It didn’t take Tasha long to find out who she was, this woman who is six feet tall and built like a fortress. The perks of being Security Chief. So the next time Jin was scheduled for a shift on her ship, Tasha found her and apologized again, asking her out for a drink in the process. They got along well, and Tasha made Jin’s quarters a regular stop whenever she passed through the Starbase. It is a mutually agreeable arrangement between them. 

The Enterprise D has been docked at the Starbase for four days, an unexpected stopover that afforded the crew some extra leave time. The Enterprise was set to rendezvous with the Bolian ambassador days ago, but an unexpected bout of the Tarkalian flu required a last minute replacement. The new ambassador should arrive at the Starbase within thirty two hours, which means another night with Jin.

Jin twitches. Though she has spent the last few nights with her, this is the first time since they’ve known each other that Tasha has spent the whole night, usually opting to return to her own bed to sleep. But their time together last night had been especially... _athletic_...and Jin’s arms especially inviting, so Tasha just fell asleep. The better she feels about their time together, the more sour she feels.

_0503\. It’s late enough._ Tasha creeps out from the covers, naked and chilled to the bone. She soundlessly gathers her uniform from the floor and begins to dress.

“Still avoiding breakfast, I see,” yawns Jin from bed. She turns on the soft bedside lamp and squinches her eyes at the sudden light. “I did that to myself,” she laughs, her smile sweetening Tasha’s sour. “But I didn’t want you to sneak out of her without getting one last look at that glorious ass.”

Tasha turns around dramatically, giving Flores a prime view. Jin laughs delightfully. On edge just a minute before, Tasha finds herself relaxed again. Joking even.

Her inner discomfort rebels. She goes on red alert. 

Tasha resumes dressing. 

“I promised Worf I’d work out with him this morning. He wants me to try his new hand to hand training program. I think he’s just testing me to see if I can cut it according to Klingon standards,” she states, rolling her eyes. “As if surviving my childhood wasn’t proof enough.” Oh no. She didn’t watch herself close enough. She said too much.

“You don’t talk about your childhood that much,” Jin answers, predictably on cue. This is precisely why she doesn’t talk about it. People have...questions. Questions she would rather not answer half naked and before she’s had her morning workout and coffee.

“Another time,” Tasha says noncommittally, but with a smile.

“Mhmm,” answers Jin skeptically, arching her eyebrows. She changes the subject nonetheless. “So,” she pauses, watching Tasha’s speedy escape, “I heard your Commander, Riker, is performing with a jazz ensemble tonight at the Lounge. I also heard they aren’t half bad. Wanna go?” she asks hopefully. 

Tasha turns to look at her before she answers. She stops. Jin is half draped in the sheet, her full breasts and tall, stocky build framed perfectly in the low light. Her feet don’t want to walk out the door anymore. Tasha begins to calculate how much time she has before she promised to meet Worf. There is enough. 

Jin, sensing the change in Tasha’s mood, smirks. “I’m _serious_ ,” she says as Tasha walks slowly back towards the bed. “All you eve think about is work and training. We should get out tonight. Have some fun. Aren’t you tired of spending all your time thinking about your job?” Jin abruptly stops talking. Tasha is undressed and back in bed, her mouth now consuming the breasts that were so far away only seconds before. Jin moans, conversation over. 

She isn’t wrong, though, and Tasha knows it. Security is her life. 

“I’m not thinking about work now,” she says slyly, tracing her fingers down towards Jin’s belly. “Do you want to not think about work with me one more time before I go?” She gives Jin a smouldering, direct gaze, meeting her eyes only briefly before running them down the rest of Jin’s succulent, semi-covered body.

Jin nods, pulling Tasha towards her. Their lips meet, and Tasha loses track of all time. Time is irrelevant to a hungry woman about to feast. 

***

**_USS Enterprise D, Holodeck 2_ **

Tasha is late.

Worf already started the program and is breathing heavily by the time Tasha arrives. A rush of hot, humid air hits her face as she enters the holographic simulation of a swampy jungle. She comes in just in time to see him throw a monstrous bipedal creature with thick armored skin before slicing it with his curved knife. Her hairs stand on end as she senses the beasts lurking in the hazy surroundings. Holographic or not, Tasha has always been able to sense danger.

Without a word, she grabs a bone club from the limp hand of one of Worf’s vanquished enemies and joins in time to block an attack from Worf’s rear. Worf’s eyes burn and, for a moment, Tasha thinks he might attack her too, mistaking her for the enemy. Instead, he nods and begins to grapple with another enemy who has appeared from the mists. She reviews her knowledge of Klingon anatomy just in case.

They spend forty minutes together in the holodeck, gaining a combat rhythm with each other. Tasha makes note of Worf’s combat style and though he is strong, he is slow. Her agility makes up for it against the onslaught of enemies endlessly coming towards them, as she quickly responds to each new threat while Worf finishes off the last. She knows she is strong, for a human, but witnessing the raw strength of her Klingon officer inspires her to hit the gym even harder later.

_I wonder if Jin would consider that work-related,_ she thinks, then shakes herself for even caring what Jin thinks in the first place.

She and Worf have walked to Ten Forward for after-workout nourishment. They have yet to break their silence with each other, as they wind down from the adrenalyn of armed combat. Worf has restrained his bloodlust, resuming his more controlled demeanor. He looks at Tasha closely from across the table, pursing his lips.

“Well, spit it out,” she orders, preemptively annoyed.

“I’ve noticed,” he starts, enduring her withering glare, “that you have taken overnight leave on the Starbase every night since we’ve been here.” His deep voice is a blend of security officer interrogation technique with neighborhood busybody. 

The sour feeling returns. 

Though she and Worf have only worked together for three months now, they have become friends, of a sort. Knowing that Worf was also orphaned at a young age made it easier for Tasha to open up to him about her own childhood, even though Worf did not have to raise himself and his sibling in a war zone like she did. She senses that he respects her for the hardship she endured. But even with all of that, Tasha still feels incredibly uncomfortable talking to him, or anyone, about her relationships with women. Not relationships. She doesn’t know what to call them.

When she doesn’t respond, Worf doesn’t let her silence deter him. He is a Klingon of patience.

“You fought well today. It seems as though the nightmares are getting better.” This too he says with just a hint of suggestion.

Tasha blushes, then recovers. She is more agile than Worf, after all.

“That program was really something,” she says, dodging the jab. “It’s a good thing I was there to watch your back,” she states assuredly. “Those, things, really had you in a corner,” she goads, giving him a broad smug smile.

That did it.

“I did not need your help,” Worf responds with finality. “In fact, I had to hold myself back just to give you something to do.” He leans back, folding his arms, and smiles with satisfaction. 

They spend the rest of the morning debating their strategy and tactics. 

Round 1, Tasha.

***

**_USS Enterprise D, Captain’s Ready Room_ **

“Sir, here are my three-month personnel reviews.” Tasha stands stiffly as she hands Picard the datapad. She is still getting used to her new Captain. He is a man she respects entirely. One whose respect she would desperately like to win in return. “I’ll be performing a complete inventory of the armory tonight.” Tasha knows very well that regulations don’t require her to perform such an inventory for another five months, but she needs something, anything to do, so that she can turn down Flores’s date offer without hurting her feelings. Duty is duty, after all.

Picard raises his eyebrows, sensing that something is amiss. It is late afternoon, and the Captain has just sat down for a cup of Earl Grey. Tasha can smell the bergamot from where she is standing, a scent she is growing to associate with her new Captain.

“I understand several members of the senior staff are getting together to attend an impromptu concert tonight. Commander Riker is going to dazzle us with his trombone. Why don’t you take the opportunity for more leave tonight? Work isn’t everything, Lieutenant.” Picard gives her an awkward fatherly sort of expression. This kind of conversation is obviously not comfortable for him. 

_Not you too,_ she thinks. 

Sensing her panic, Picard diplomatically turns his attention to the datapad. “Of course, it’s just a suggestion, Lieutenant,” he says offhandedly. “If you feel it is important to our mission that you perform inventory tonight, I will not stand in your way.” He looks up at her again. He gives her a closed, strained smile. “But if you change your mind, I will see you there.”

Tasha nods with relief.

“So if there was nothing else…”

“No, Sir.”

“You are dismissed, Lieutenant Yar.”

Tasha leaves Picard’s ready room with a new bounce in her step, freed by her duty. 

_Maybe I can still stop by Jin’s quarters after the concert_ , she thinks. _I’m sure I can get her to forgive me._ Then Tasha imagines all the ways to earn that forgiveness as she walks to the armory. 

Round 2, Tasha.

***

**_USS Enterprise D_ **

Tasha walks down the corridor confidently, eager to spend the evening immersed in the Enterprise’s collection of weapons and defensive arsenal.

“Data to Lt. Yar,” Data signals.

“Go ahead,” she answers, slowing.

“I’ve detected anomalous readings in Cargo Bay 3,” he reports. “The ship’s sensors are unable to take precise readings, but I am detecting chroniton radiation.”

“I’ll check it out,” she answers, turning on her heels towards the turbolift.

When she arrives at Cargo Bay 3, everything seems in order. Pulling out her tricorder, she begins to take readings as she searches the Bay. The only other person in there is a crewman from Engineering doing routine maintenance on the power conduit. 

“Data, are you receiving this?” she asks, detecting a large and expanding cloud of chroniton radiation. “What is it?” She can almost see the cloud appearing in front of her.

“Processing your readings, Lieutenant. Stand by,” Data answers.

As Tasha waits, the cloud takes on greater form. Tasha takes a step back.

But it is too late.

A bright blue-green light flashes in front of her, as she is pulled into the anomaly. Then, bright light turns to deep darkness.

She wakes up on the floor of an unknown sickbay, a man waving an old-fashioned medical tricorder up and down her body.

“Good,” he says, “you’re awake. Now who the hell are you?”

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Shipwreck Blues

_ It's rainin' and it's stormin' on the sea _

_ It's rainin', it's stormin' on the sea _

_ I feel like somebody has shipwrecked poor me _

**_USS Enterprise_ **

“Where am I?” Tasha asks, half groaning. Her tailbone is sore from the floor’s unforgiving resistance. The man in front of her is wearing a Starfleet uniform, if an outdated one. His blue short sleeved smock carries the insignia on his breast, but he is missing a combadge. 

He crosses his arms before he answers. Tasha notices the dark hair covering his forearms.  _ Human _ .

“The question is where did  _ you _ come from,” he answers instead, to her annoyance. He continues his scan. “What is your name, miss?” he asks finally, looking up from his tricorder.

“Lt. Natasha Yar,” she answers, feeling for her own phaser and tricorder. 

“If you’re looking for those,” he points to the metallic table behind him, “I’d prefer you first tell me how you ended up on my sickbay.”

Tasha notices his Earth accent and looks around again. She feels for her combadge. “Tasha to Data,” she signals, ignoring her company. There is no answer.

“I don’t know how I got here,” she says distractedly. “The last thing I remember, I was on my own ship scanning for chroniton radiation.” She wishes she had her scanner now. “Are we on Starbase 36?” Tasha asks. 

“No,” the man answers, cranky. “You’re on the  _ Enterprise _ .” He enunciates the words like she is getting over a blow to the head.

_ Is that what happened? Was I attacked? But that light... _

Tasha looks at him with confusion. “Where is Doctor Crusher?” she asks finally. She must have answers.

“Who’s Doctor Crusher?” he returns in kind. Tasha can tell that he is starting to feel frustrated with the mystery before him, his drawl intensifying with his emotions. “I’m the only Doctor on board this ship. Leonard McCoy, pleased to meet you,” he clarifies, holding out his hand. Tasha takes it.

“I’ve never seen you before. Did you arrive at the Starbase? You must have hit your head.” He continues his examination, murmuring “and I must be seeing things,” under his breath. 

“What did you see?” Tasha asks him urgently, putting her hand on his forearm.

Before he can answer, the disruption appears again. Tasha, quick on her feet, jumps upright and nimbly reaches for her equipment. Her hands barely grip her tricorder and phaser before the shimmer once again luminates to a bright blue-green flash, pulling them both into the dark.

***

**North Clark Street, Chicago**

“I feel like my retinas are on fire,” McCoy exclaims, blinking into the bright morning sunlight as his eyes adjust to the natural light. He shivers and crosses his arms again, the short shirtsleeves of his smock insufficient for the freezing winter temperature.

They are in an alley, just off a lightly trafficked street. The scent of yesterday’s trash pierces the icy air. Tasha’s nostrils freeze, her breath crystallizing as she exhales. She takes a moment to gather her bearings. From their vantage point, she can see the brick buildings lining the streets, standing squat and low, though she can see much taller high rises in the distance, several still under construction. Boxy, slow vehicles drive over the icy, paved roads.

“We need to find cover,” she says, looking him over as he starts to shake and shiver in earnest.

He nods, tilting his head towards the large “CAFE” sign across the street.

“Where are we?” she asks, surveying the street before crossing with the Doctor.

“This looks like Earth,” he says looking around himself. “But it sure doesn’t look like 2267. Maybe early twentieth century?”

_ Great. Time travel. _ With the chroniton radiation, she shouldn’t be so surprised. 

“Wait, 2276? No wonder the Enterprise didn’t look familiar.” She shakes her head, finally realizing what has been happening since she took those readings in Cargo Bay 3 and got zapped to Doctor McCoy’s sickbay.

McCoy looks at her, understanding coming into his own mind. He looks at her again in this new light.

“Well, first thing’s first. We’re going to need currency,” McCoy says finally, scrunching his brow as if he is trying to recall something he learned once. He shivers again uncontrollably. 

Arriving across the street to the café, they spy a man sitting on the ground over a mass of cardboard and newspaper. There is a tin can at his feet with assorted coins.

“What do you want for your coins and the front page of that newspaper?” McCoy asks, pointing to the man’s treasure. His pale weathered skin, ragged clothing, and dull eyes remind Tasha of home.

He looks at the Doctor, startled. Then he regards them both for a moment. He points to Tasha.

“Excuse me?” she says, offended.

He shakes his head, leveling his finger at her throat. She runs her fingers along the two gold pips denoting her rank out of habit.

“Is this what you want?” She removes the pips and shows them to the beggar.

He grabs them eagerly, then shifts his weight off of the desired page. McCoy grabs both the cup and the paper.

The man quickly takes back the tin can and pours the money on the ground.

Tasha swears and picks up the coins clattering on the pavement. As she pockets the money, she notices the Doctor scanning the pleased man.

He tsks. “Cirrhosis, heart disease, dementia. And it looks like everyone is content to just let him live on the streets. Good God! The barbarity!” He looks genuinely upset, even as his teeth have now started to clatter.

“Come on,” she says. “There’s nothing we can do for him right now. And we have to get out of this cold.” She hopes that she can reason with him, even recognizing that he is right. But she has experienced firsthand the barbarity of humankind. And it wasn’t in the distant past.

He hugs himself tighter, then relents and follows her into the warm cafe.

Tasha surveys the modest diner. The place is about half full. It has a small counter, a handful of men hunched over it on stools and eating breakfast. Red booths line the walls and several more tables are scattered on the floor. The faint tunes of a brass band come from the radio perched atop the kitchen countertop.

“Coffee,” Tasha orders when the waitress approaches. She gestures “two” with her fingers, and they take seats at a booth near the window. The waitress, a pale woman who is wearing a black apron over a knee-length skirt and blouse, nods.

“Are you eating,” she asks them as she sets the hot beverages in front of them. The cream and sugar are already on the table. 

“No thank you, miss,” Doctor McCoy answers graciously, looking up at the attractive, fair haired woman serving them. He gives her a complimenting grin. 

She smiles sweetly back at him. She is perhaps ten years younger than the Doctor, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She then gives Tasha a look over, as if she’s trying to figure something out. Another customer calls her over before she can.

McCoy spreads the newspaper onto the table in front of them. The Chicago Tribune. He traces his fingers past the black block lettered headlines telling of police raids and gang murders to the banner. 

“February 14, 1929,” states McCoy. “Happy Valentine's Day,” he adds wryly. 

Two well dressed men enter the diner, the bell at the door announcing their arrival. Tasha casts her glance briefly over them. Though their clothes appear expensive and impeccably tailored, the men have a rough look about them. One is wearing a charcoal grey pinstripe suit and matching hat. The other is in navy blue, matching his malicious eyes. Tasha notes the cases each carries at his side. Taking off their long coats and stylish fedoras, they eye the cafe before seating themselves at the farthest booth from the Starfleet officers. One of them keeps his eyes on the police cruiser outside, while the other casually chats at the waitress and orders coffee. Tasha turns her attention back to the Doctor.

“What do you know about this time period, Doctor?” Tasha is trying to recall the little she learned about Earth history at Starfleet Academy. She didn’t exactly have the opportunity for history lessons as a child while running from the gangs. 

“Primitive,” he huffs, recalling the homeless man outside. His face has regained its color and he is no longer shaking. He points at the front page article, “we are smack in the middle of the Prohibition era.”

“What is it they are prohibiting?” Tasha has only a vague recollection of the subject.

“Booze,” answers McCoy simply. “So, of course, now everyone wants to drink it. Which means crime. And in Chicago right now, it means gang war. Look here,” he adds, showing Tasha the newspaper article about the most recent murders.

Tasha shudders almost imperceptibly, as she glances at the two men from the corners of her eyes, at their suits and the cases just large enough to be assault weapons.  _ Gangs _ . No, she tells herself, the streets of Chicago seem more orderly than the anarchy of Turkana IV. This is not a violent society, but not a failed one. 

Doctor McCoy casually studies her wincing eyes and tightening shoulders before he goes further. 

“Do you have any idea how we ended up in the twentieth century, Lieutenant?” He leans closer to her as he speaks, resting his elbows on the table. “And more importantly, do you have any idea how to get us back?” he asks emphatically.

“I was tracking chroniton radiation on the Enterprise, when I saw that light. And then I was waking up in your sickbay. I have my tricorder. I suggest we canvas the area after we warm up. Hopefully we can track the radiation to whoever, or whatever, brought us here. We’re also going to need to find shelter. I doubt we’re going to get far on what’s left of that,” she nods to the pile of coins. 

McCoy nods in agreement.

“So,” he asks begrudgingly, “how far in the future are you from?” He looks at her tricorder again and notes her combadge, an insignia that is more than just woven onto her uniform. 

“I serve as Chief of Security on the Enterprise D,” she answers proudly. “I came from 2364.”

McCoy whistles.

“Eddie, let’s go!” the man in the dark grey suit says to the one in dark blue. Two uniformed police officers are waiting for them at the entrance of the cafe. They have the same stony, dangerous look as the others. Tasha looks down the street, but doesn’t see the police car where it was previously parked.

“The cops are bought here,” McCoy whispers, trying not to call attention to them, though their Starfleet uniforms do it well enough. He waits until they are gone before he says, “So how do you suppose we get ourselves out of this mess?”

Tasha produces her tricorder, folding the newspaper to conceal it from general view. “I think we start with the chroniton radiation,” she answers, reviewing the tricorder’s calibration.

McCoy looks around nervously, keeping lookout for prying eyes.

“I got it!” Tasha exclaims. The instrument confirms with a low hum. “South,” she continues definitively. 

McCoy signals to the waitress and they pay for their coffee. Tasha nonchalantly snags two grey coats hanging from the rack by the door. McCoy grabs a couple of brimmed hats.

“I feel like less of a sore thumb,” McCoy says. “And much better prepared for this cursed cold.” He hugs the coat tightly around himself. His nose is red again, but his teeth are not clattering.

Tasha conceals the tricorder under her jacket, the rush of frigid wind concealing its sounds from any but the two of them. As they follow the signal, they approach what appears to be a confrontation between law enforcement and criminals. 

Two officers carrying shotguns are pointing their weapons towards a group of men, who are filing into some sort of mechanic’s garage. The officers are accompanied by two others, who are carrying rifles with drum magazines. 

McCoy’s eyes go wide. “Shit. We better get out of here.”

Tasha nods her agreement and they double time it to clear the garage. Within minutes, they hear the unmistakable sound of multiple weapons firing, the loud bang of the shotguns along with the rapid fire of the rifles. That, and the men whose screams could not be drowned out by the shots.

Tasha goes into survival mode. Her senses heighten and time slows. She surveys the neighborhood becoming chaotic around them. Just as she reaches to pull the Doctor with her toward safety, they hear a woman's cry of pain in the alley behind the garage.

“We have to help her,” McCoy yells, brooking no debate. And before Tasha can respond, he runs towards the sound of gunfire and death.

  
  



	3. A Good Man is Hard to Find

_ My happiness is less today _

_ My heart is broke, that's why I say _

_ Lord, a good man is hard to find _

_ You always get another kind _

**North Clark Street, Chicago**

“But Doctor...” Tasha yells after McCoy. He won’t let her finish her sentence as he charges toward the sound of human suffering.

_ Everyone here is already dead _ , she thinks to herself, the realities of time travel warping her sense of right and wrong. It is Starfleet’s stance that the atrocities of the past must be allowed to happen without any interference from a future capable of time travel. The Temporal Prime Directive. She doubts it would be a persuasive argument to a man like McCoy. 

Tasha’s cool composure masks her pounding heart and tensing muscles. She takes total stock of her surroundings as she follows the doctor, her eyes passing over every bystander, the pattern of the gunfire, now finally ceasing, and most importantly, every escape route. The woman’s screams have become a whimper that Tasha can hear the closer she gets to her prone body. Tasha peers at the garage window wearing the bullet hole and traces the trajectory to her.

The wounded young woman is wearing a cobalt blue dress under a fur-lined blue plaid coat that reaches her knees. Parcels of fabric are scattered about her. She is bleeding profusely from a wound to her upper shoulder, the red tarnishing the brass of her skin. She begins to curse softly under her breath, her hand pressing against her wound to staunch the bleeding. 

“Don’t move,” whispers McCoy gently. He grabs his medical bag from his side, pulling out the medical tricorder to scan the woman’s wound. She looks at the strange device with suspicion.

Tasha hears the screeching of tires as the shooters make their getaway and the building din of a gathering crowd. She keeps her hand instinctively at her side on her phaser.

“We have to get out of here before the authorities arrive,” Tasha hisses to McCoy. “Can you move?” she asks the woman directly, trying to bypass the doctor.

The woman swears again. “I think so.” She groans as she gets to her feet, McCoy bracing her elbow.

“Should we take her to a hospital?” Tasha asks as they support her weight evenly between them. They walk slowly against the foot traffic of the curious onlookers.

“No,” McCoy answers, “medicine is still very crude right now. She could just as well die of an infection. But the wound isn’t deep. I can treat her if we can find somewhere quiet,” he says as he looks around his shoulder.

“McCoy, we can’t interfere with the timeline,” Tasha asserts. “We shouldn’t get involved.”

“I’m a doctor, not a physicist,” he snaps back. “It’s my duty to treat the injured. The scientists can sort everything else out.”

Tasha sighs, relenting in her argument. She doesn’t really want to leave this woman to her own fate either. After a block, they find a small park with a quiet, shaded bench for McCoy’s patient.

“Easy now,” McCoy says as they help her to the frozen bench. He consults his tricorder.

“I’m a doctor. My name is Leonard McCoy. I’m going to have to pull back your shirt so that I can look at your wound.” He pulls out a clunky rectangular device and aims it at the wound. When Tasha sees the wound start to heal, she realizes that it is an ancient model protoplaser. He isn’t even trying to hide his technology from the young earth woman. The woman takes one look at her healing wound and passes out. 

_ Great.  _ Tasha exhales. They are far enough away from the shooting now that fewer eyes are on them. 

“The bullet just grazed her,” McCoy explains. “This shouldn’t take long.”

He silently continues his work. Tasha can tell he has no inner conflict of duty about his actions to help this woman. She wrinkles her forehead and keeps watch for witnesses. Starfleet regulations and obeying the directives give Tasha her sense of order. When law and order do not exist, people fall into their basest natures. She has seen it happen with her own eyes on her home planet. Humans without principles are capable of the worst atrocities. 

But there is something about McCoy. His sense of right and wrong comes from somewhere other than Starfleet regulations. They are embedded into his very character. But not only that, he trusts himself and his code. She understands keenly that not to help would be the gravest sin in his eyes, no matter the severity of the wound.

The woman begins to stir.

McCoy finishes his treatment, takes her vitals, and stows his gear back into his medical bag.

“It’s alright now, Miss,” he says soothingly. He pulls her coat gently over her torn dress to cover her exposed skin. “You’ll be alright now.” McCoy becomes increasingly self conscious as he begins to notice his patient’s gorgeous brown eyes and full-figured beauty. His cheeks go red.

She flashes her eyelashes at him and smiles at his kind care. She still seems like she may be in shock.

“You really are some fancy doctor, aren’t you” she whistles, searching her shoulder for a wound that has already healed. She checks the blood on her dress and the hole piercing the garment. 

“Well, I’m just a old country doctor, Miss.” He flashes her a generous smile. “Doctor McCoy. And you are?” He takes her hand in a delicate, gentlemanly shake, keeping eye contact and smiling widely.

“You can call me Mrs. McCoy,” she says breathlessly, then blushes.

Tasha smirks when McCoy’s ears turn red.  _ Not bad for an old country doctor _ , she muses. 

Recovering himself, he says, “well the last woman who called herself that would probably have a few words of caution for you,” and he chuckles. 

“Divorced,” she says, eyebrow arching. “How modern.” Then, seeing that her wounds are gone, she gets to her feet resolutely, a twinkle in her eye. “My name’s Luci, Luci Moore.” She releases McCoy’s hand and turns to Tasha.

“Tasha Yar,” she replies, offering her hand. Luci accepts it and gives Tasha a curious look. She looks at Tasha more closely.

“You’re a woman.” Luci says it as if it is an answer to a question, not a statement of fact.

“Yes,” Tasha answers slowly. “Is there a problem with that?” Tasha’s stoic features bunch quizzically. 

Luci shakes herself. “No, ma’am, I just never saw a woman with such short hair. Not even those flapper girls cut theirs so short.” She marvels at Tasha’s outfit. “You sure don’t look like you’re from here.” 

Tasha receives her appraisal without comment. She is aware that women are expected to behave a certain way in this time period. She isn’t sure she will be able to comply. 

McCoy looks awkwardly between Luci and Tasha. He clears his throat. “Tasha is from overseas,” he says, trying to cover.

“Where are my packages?” Luci asks suddenly, forgetting the conversation. Her eyes become big. “They’re back at the alley, aren’t they?” She looks at them, resigned. She groans. “I traded two good bottles of Canadian whiskey for that fabric. I don’t suppose we can go back for it?”

“There are police everywhere,” Tasha answers. “I would prefer we didn’t attract their attention.” She looks at McCoy. “We need to find somewhere to shelter and regroup for the night. Now that Luci isn’t in any danger, maybe we should be on our way.” She canvasses their surroundings again. 

Luci looks the two of them up and down, forming her own explanations for their oddities. “Well, I owe you for getting me out of there,” she says finally. “And I don’t know how you did it, but you fixed me up too,” her gaze lingers on the Doctor at this. “Tell you what. Come with me to my place. You’ll be safe from the cops,” she adds. “We’ll be in Capone’s territory. They won’t bother you there.”

“Al Capone?” McCoy says, agape.

“Do you know him, Doctor?” Tasha asks.

“He’s only the most famous bootlegger and gangster in Earth history,” McCoy answers. “You’re saying it’s  _ safer _ in his territory?”

‘Yeah,” Luci answers, casually. “I dance in an act in one of his speakeasies. And I live in an apartment upstairs.” She looks at them again, bunching her eyes. “We don’t get many white folks down there, but I think I’ll just let them think you’re with Capone’s racket.” Tasha can tell she is formulating a plan as she speaks. 

“Thank you, Miss Moore,” McCoy says genteelly. He looks at Tasha, silently conveying their lack of better options. 

Tasha discreetly checks her tricorder. “Do you live south of here? We need to go south.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” she says grinning, taking off towards the main street. “Let’s go.”

***

**South State Street, Chicago**

Luci takes them to a trolley stop and watches with amusement as McCoy bumbles his way through paying their fare, the last of their coins. Tasha hangs on to the metal bar with her elbow and watches the city go by.

At a certain point, the city...changes. The change is stark and sudden.

“What just happened?” Tasha asks, as she notices the abrupt change in the people on the streets.

“It’s called segregation,” McCoy spits. Then he scowls. “The country forces people apart based on skin tone. By law.”

“You really aren’t from around here, are you?” Luci looks at Tasha’s confusion with curiosity. 

Moments later, she says, “this is our stop,” and casually steps off the trolley. McCoy takes her arm as they walk onto the street.

Luci leads them through the bustling afternoon of the segregated neighborhood and through the backdoor of a nondescript speakeasy. Nondescript on the outside anyway. Inside, Tasha spies the grand mahogany bar and empty stools, the scattered tables for two and four, and the stage. The only light is the dim sunlight piercing through the cracks of the covered windows. The smell of stale tobacco and spilled liquor lingers in the air.

Luci watches keenly as Tasha takes everything in. 

“Come on,” she says, waving them upstairs past a locked door behind the bar. She pulls cord for the light to illuminate their way up the creaky staircase into the loft above.

“This club is run by Sweet Pea Johnson. She’s the best pianist and bandleader in Chicago. Other acts like to come here to relax after they perform in the vaudeville theaters or other clubs. You have to be on Sweet Pea’s list to get in,” she smiles. “Unless, the Outfit says otherwise, since they own the place,” she adds.

“The Outfit?” Tasha knows the name of a gang when she hears one.

“The Outfit,” Luci repeats more slowly, as though talking to a child. She stops in between floors and turns to face Tasha “The South Side Gang? You know, Capone’s boys.”

Tasha just nods back, pretending to follow along. She checks her tricorder when Luci turns her head forward again. The chroniton radiation’s signature is much closer now. She is also detecting advanced technology in the area. If Luci hears the soft humming and beeping of the instrument, she makes no indication.

Once at the top, Luci takes them through another door, which opens into an open area that looks like half dressing room, half living space. It is one room partitioned into different “rooms” by folding ornate wooden room dividers. Sparkling dresses with dangling fringe and more revealing attire, dripping with colorful feathers and rhinestones lay about draped on chairs and the scattered dividers. The display is a stark contrast to the more conservative and muted dress she is currently wearing.

“Sorry for the mess,” Luci says offhandedly, unembarrassed. “I work the vaudeville acts,” she explains. “They always need extra dancers. Provided you have your own stage wear.”

McCoy surveys the suggestive wardrobe around him, avoiding casting his eyes over the undergarments. Tasha smiles at his modesty. She has read about McCoy and his Captain, Kirk, at the Academy. Reports that McCoy was a good man and a good officer are true as far as she can tell. 

“Now I know I have a couple of suits around here somewhere.” She rummages through a wardrobe behind one of the partitions. She steps back out with her hands full of hanging clothing. “These should fit you OK,” she says to McCoy, handing him a dark blue three-piece suit. “I’ll have to alter this one for you,” she says to Tasha, holding up a dapper charcoal one with pinstripes. “Assuming you want to keep playing at being a man.” She says it as though it is an answer to a puzzle that she has solved. 

“Is that what I’m doing?” Tasha asks wryly. When Luci starts to answer, she raises her hand to silence her. “No, you’re right. You got me. I doubt I would do well in those shoes,” she points to Luci’s high-heeled feet. 

“Well, you’ll need a better corset,” Luci says, looking at Tasha’s chest with distaste. “Yours isn’t hiding anything now is it?” She rummages in one of her drawers and pulls out a large bra with lacing at the sides. “This should flatten you, so the suit will fit better, and it will be less obvious you’re a woman.”

Tasha picks up the corset and makes a sour face. When she looks at McCoy, he looks away from her quickly, the creep of a smirk and a hint of red on his face. “Why do you have men's clothes, anyway? Do they belong to your man?” Tasha wants to change the subject as quickly as possible.

“An ex,” Luci answers simply. “Here, put this on so I can pin it.” Tasha takes the suit behind a partition and changes out of her uniform, changing from her comfortable sports bra to the restricting corset.  _ How the hell am I supposed to tie this,  _ she thinks, turning herself into a pretzel to bind her breasts in the medieval torture device. Instead of framing her breasts in a comfortable fit, the corset completely flattens her chest. It is very uncomfortable. 

“There!” Luci exclaims. “Now you don’t look like a doorman from a fancy hotel downtown. You look like a proper gangster,” She starts to fuss with the suit, pinning it in place for a better fit.

Tasha tries not to feel awkward as Luci’s expert hands cover her body as she prepares the suit for modification, first pinning her back, then her arms, and finally, her legs. 

McCoy tries not to look jealous. He turns from Tasha and Luci and casually peruses the books and magazines scattered about. He picks up a pulp magazine with a red cover and yellow letters that say  _ Amazing Stories. _ He shows it to Tasha, who is a captive audience while Luci works. The cover shows a picture of a metal android wrestling a lion. The android’s metal eyes are like a fly’s. He opens to the first story and dictates, “The Menace of Mars.”

“Do you believe in the Martians, Dr. McCoy?” Luci asks eagerly, pins sticking from her mouth. “Do you think there are men living up there like they say?”

“Uh, no,” McCoy answers delicately. “There are no men on Mars,” he says more definitively. 

Luci looks disappointed and then confused. “Well then who are those guys if they aint from Mars?” She seems genuinely stumped.

“Who are what guys, Luci?” Tasha asks slowly.

“They started coming around last week,” Luci explains. “They run with The Outfit, but there’s something about them,” she trails off. “Like there’s nothing behind their eyes, you know?” She shudders. “They have the most alien eyes I ever seen. I mean, you two are queer, but at least your eyes are human.” She stops herself. “You  _ are _ human, right?” She puts down her pins and looks at the place she was shot, playing with the hole in her bloody dress. “I better change this,” she says absentmindedly, without waiting for an answer, and removes herself from the room and into the small bathroom.

“What do you think, Tasha? Are these  _ Martians  _ related to our current predicament?”

“Could be,” Tasha replies. She pulls out her tricorder and scans for chronitons. “The trace is definitely stronger here,” she says finally. “We’re on the right track. We should canvass the area once we have clothes that won’t attract so much attention.”

McCoy grabs his suit and makes his way behind a folding wall. He hangs his uniform over the top, first his smock then pants. “It looks like you’re going to be tied up for awhile. Show me how your fancy tricorder works and I can get a head start. Do you have one of these?” he pulls his communicator out of his pocket.

“Tasha to McCoy,” Tasha tests, pushing her combadge. She hears her voice echo from McCoy’s communicator.

“Fancy,” he says mockingly, but impressed nonetheless. “At least we will be in contact.”

Tasha nods. It’s a solid plan. “Be back in two hours.”

McCoy nods as he emerges dressed in the suit, looking as if he belongs to this time.

Luci returns from the bathroom in a new dress and cleaned up. She walks up to McCoy and straightens his lapel, looking pleased. “That’s more like it,” she says satisfied. 

McCoy is able to keep his dignity until Luci pins a single red rose on his lapel. His cheeks grow pink as she leans in close. She gives him a flirtatious grin and a slight squeeze to his arm. When she turns away, Tasha sees McCoy licking his lips in a nervous habit. She laughs goodnaturedly to herself. 

“OK then” McCoy says, recovering. “I’m off. I’ll see you ladies in two hours. I’ll be in touch,” he adds to Tasha.

Luci just watches him go, setting her keen eyes on Tasha. “Now then, let’s finish this up, so that McCoy isn’t the only one who can have fun tonight.” Luci arches her eyebrows and gives Tasha a wicked grin. 


	4. Mama’s Got the Blues

_ Some people say that the weary blues ain't bad _

_ Some people say the weary blues ain't bad _

_ But it's the worst old feeling that I've ever had _

**South State Street, Chicago**

“So,” Luci says behind a pile of fabric that once had the shape of a jacket, “how do you know Doctor McCoy? Are you his assistant or something?” she asks causally. She is sitting at a work table in the corner and delicately pulling the lining from Tasha’s jacket, careful of the pins.

Tasha laughs. “No we’re colleagues. We...work together.”

“You're his nurse?” Luci’s eyes go wide. 

Tasha wouldn’t believe it looking at her either. She has the obvious look of a security officer among her own people, in her own time. Tasha doesn’t miss that Luci assumes Tasha is not a doctor like McCoy, but rather his subservient.

“No, no,” Tasha corrects herself. She feels like a fish out of water. “I’m...in security,” she says, hoping it’s an answer that she will accept. She might as well be an alien.

“Like a bodyguard?” Luci crinkles her brow and looks up from her work, appraising Tasha in a new way. She has a look of disbelief. 

“Yes,” Tasha decides. “Exactly like a bodyguard. His bodyguard, if we are being honest,” she laughs. “But he probably hasn’t realized it yet,” she says under her breath.

“A woman bodyguard!” Luci exclaims. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Then she narrows her eyes at Tasha. “You said you are from overseas. Just where are you from exactly? There’s something about the two of you. It doesn’t add up.” Then she conspicuously looks at her healed shoulder and back at Tasha again. 

“We’re not Martians,” Tasha says, laughing weakly and trying to figure out how to clean up the doctor’s mess. Luci isn’t wrong about her, though. Same species or not, Tasha is indeed from another planet and it must plainly show. 

“Obviously,” replies Luci, surprising Tasha. “I can see that in your eyes,” she explains at Tasha's reaction. She gets up from her chair and flips through one of her science fiction pulp magazines. A man in an all red jumpsuit is hovering above the ground with the help of some sort of device on his back on the cover. “Here,” she says, stopping in the middle. “The future.” 

Tasha is aghast. “What about it?” she asks, vaguely staring at the small newsprint. It would be simpler to tell her the truth, but regulations dictate she avoid that at all costs. Of course, these situations seem to be more complicated in the field than the regulations might suggest. 

Luci regards her closely again. “It’s where you’re really from. You must be here to stop the Martians from taking over Earth. It’s the only thing that explains you.” She gestures with both her hands as she sweeps them up and down towards Tasha as though her point is self-evident. “That or you both wandered off from the nuthouse and the moonshine is finally getting to me.”

“That seems more likely,” Tasha laughs non committedly, but still genuinely amused. “I think your imagination just ran away with you. It’s these awful rags,” she laughs picking up another fantastical pulp magazine. “Is it really such a strange thing to see a woman wearing pants?”

“That is odd,” Luci agrees. “But there’s something else. If you’d have told me I would be shooting the breeze up here with a white lady in my ex’s trousers, I would have told you it would be more likely if it were two men from Mars here to sip tea.” She looks at Tasha pointedly. “You are a puzzle. And I always solve tough puzzles.” Tasha believes her. 

But sensing she will get no more from Tasha, she returns to her work table and continues with the adjustments to the suit. Tasha looks at the magazine. She has two hours to kill while she waits for McCoy and the alterations. She could go out in her uniform and stolen jacket again, but that had indeed attracted too much attention. It is better to blend in. So she flips through the well read periodical as she waits, noting with amusement at the era’s vision of the future. 

It is late afternoon when McCoy returns with the results of his readings.

“Luci’s right,” McCoy says, pulling Tasha aside. The chronitonic signatures went everywhere and they always led to a pair of gangsters. Gangsters with unusually dead eyes,” he adds. “I tell you, that girl is quite something.” He looks over at Luci, who is hunched over a humming sewing machine.

Tasha smiles and relays her earlier conversation.

“Clever,” he agrees. “Well, it’ll be difficult to keep it from her for too much longer, especially if we run into these ‘Martians.’” He chuckles. “Oh here, I almost forgot.” He hands her a paper bag. “I got hungry and figured you could use a bite to eat yourself. It’s not my Mama’s recipe, but it isn’t bad.” Inside, Tasha finds a wrapped fried chicken sandwich and a couple of dinner rolls. 

“Where did you get the money to buy this?” Tasha asks between bites. “We spent the last of our coins on the trolley.” Steam from her meal wafts into the loft. Her stomach grumbles at the aroma. 

“I’ll never tell,” McCoy answers with a smile and a wink, tipping his hat at Tasha. What Tasha wouldn’t give to be Counselor Troi right now. 

_ The suit must be getting to him _ , she thinks. She has seen her Captain enter the holodeck in his private eye get up and noticed the changes to his posture and mannerisms too. She will have to get into character too. Luci had confided in her earlier about her petty involvement with Capone’s gang, the Outfit. She would pass them off as members of that gang as their cover at the speakeasy downstairs, Ginger’s. Capone owns Ginger’s. Luci explained that this would be necessary as it is uncommon for “folks like them” to frequent this particular establishment. But Capone’s boys regularly came by to keep an eye on his business interests. Sometimes Capone himself came to listen to Ginger or her guests play, according to their host. He is known to appreciate the jazz and blues greats, regardless of the color of their skin. 

While Luci finishes her work, McCoy and Tasha formulate their plan. They will wait until late tonight and follow the tricorder to the nearest “Martian.” They will observe and find their opening, and Tasha will disable and kidnap one of them for questioning. McCoy is happy to leave the combat to her.

It is well into evening by the time Luci finishes her task. Tasha has spent the past few hours fighting back the feeling of being caged, her freedom of movement hinging on a hasty disguise. To be honest, though, she is quite looking forward to dressing the part as the suit looks quite dashing. She wonders for a brief instant whether Jin would appreciate her ass in that suit. She shakes her head. She may never see Jin, or any of her friends, again if they can’t find a way back to their proper times.  _ Focus on the task at hand _ , she thinks to herself. 

Tasha takes the newly altered suit back behind the partition and begins to dress.

“Mind you,” Luci says, “there’s only so much I can do. The suit was meant for a larger man,” she winks.

Tasha undresses and puts on the better fitting suit, slipping her arm through the silky sleeve of the charcoal jacket to complete her new look. She smooths her hair back into place and steps out from the divider. The suit is still a little big, but Luci had done well to minimize the effect, tailoring it to give Tasha the appearance of being a bit larger. 

It is half past seven and Tasha is already getting hungry again. 

“Whew,” Luci exclaims. “I could use a drink.”

“We’re buying!” McCoy blurts, displaying a handful of paper currency. 

She looks at him appreciatively, takes his arm, and follows him back down to the speakeasy below. When they arrive, the place is still mostly empty. The radio is playing a live music show that sometimes alternates to comedy and skits.

“Come on,” Luci says as she boldly pulls McCoy towards the bar. Tasha follows along, taking stock of her surroundings. The other patrons keep a wide berth of their party.

“New friends, Luci?” the bartender asks genially. Tasha gets the sense that his friendliness is a protective facade. 

“Yeah,” Luci answers back in kind. “Sam, this is McCoy and Tash. They’re  _ friends _ ,” she adds suggestively, as though he would understand the tone. 

“Well, any friend of Luci’s is a friend of mine,” Sam returns. “What’ll it be?” Raucous laughter erupts from the radio in response to the current act.

“Whiskey,” McCoy answers, without hesitation, his Southern accent punctuating the word. 

The bartender nods and turns to Tasha, already pouring McCoy’s drink.

“Nothing, thanks.” 

The bartender looks suspiciously at her as he fixes the doctor’s drink. Luci nervously shifts her weight before nudging Tasha in the ribs. 

“Same,” she answers reluctantly. She would prefer not to hamper her senses with real alcohol. And she never drinks on duty. 

Raising his glass in salute, McCoy downs the whole thing in one gulp

Smirking, Tasha takes a gulp, then immediately spits it out. “Are you kidding me?” she says, her mouth offended at the diesel burning her tongue. 

Sam and McCoy chuckle.

“Better make this one a mint julep,” Luci says with a laugh, kindly hiding her wide grin with her hand. “Tash ain’t much of a drinker.” She pats Tasha on the back good naturedly. 

So they pass the time, waiting for the crowd to come and go, furtively keeping an eye on their tricorders for chronitons, Luci watching them like a hawk. But they are the only “gangsters” in the speakeasy for many hours. 

Tasha leans against the bar, feigning ease. Luci is prying McCoy for information about his life and his knowledge of current events.

“So, Doctor McCoy,” Luci continues coyly, “you were born in Atlanta and attended the University of Mississippi...”   
“Ole Miss, yes,” McCoy answers fondly, sipping on his third whiskey, playing her game with an innocent charm. “Then I went to medical school and joined the service,” he says vaguely.

“You served in the war,” Sam interjects, appraising McCoy again.

McCoy nods grimly.

The speakeasy is slowly starting to fill up and the radio has been replaced by a live quartet composed of a piano, standing bass, trumpet, and trombone. The smartly dressed men and dazzling women in sequence, feathers, and furs mill about the scattered tables and dance floor. Sam leaves their group to pour more drinks.

Luci taps her feet unconsciously to the rhythm of the bass, smiling widely as the band’s sultry tune opens up to a piano solo, the black woman at the keys earning shouts of praise from the audience. 

Noticing her heightened alert, McCoy approaches Tasha and joins her against the bar. 

“Don’t you know how to relax, Lieutenant?” he asks playfully, taking another sip of his drink.

Tasha has a pointed feeling of deja vu. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” he persists, “I want to get home as much as you do. But look around,” he says with awe. “We are in Chicago in 1929,” he adds whispering. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen very often. Maybe you should live a little. Doctor’s orders,” he adds. He turns to face her, looking more serious now.

Before Tasha has a chance to answer, there is a rustle in the crowd as three women covered in jewels and furs enter the speakeasy, causing gleeful commotion around them. The woman in the center, a big woman with generous curves and high cheekbones walks in with a comfortable and confident grin, arms around the others. When they approach an occupied table with the best view of the band, those already there scatter when she gives them a pointed, commanding look. And while the other patrons look at Tasha and McCoy with suspicion and curiosity, this woman noticeably doesn’t look at them at all. 

Luci is beside herself. “I didn’t know  _ she _ was in town,” she says with reverence. “She isn’t playing any of the shows this week.”

“Who is that?” asks Tasha, fascinated. Two of the women touch each other with an open familiarity that Tasha recognizes, but hasn’t seen yet in this time.

Luci looks at her sharply, then with pity. “Bessie Smith,” she answers simply, as if that were explanation enough. It’s another test. 

McCoy stands erect, startled, but Tasha just looks at Luci blankly. 

“Bessie Smith?” Luci repeats. “Empress of the Blues?” Her mouth is agape at Tasha's ignorance. She is looking at her now as if she truly is an alien from the future. 

Tasha shakes her head, feeling suddenly itchy. Luci tilts her head at Tasha and narrows her eyes.

McCoy also looks at Tasha, exaggerating his own surprise for Luci’s benefit. After they take turns teasing her for her gaps in popular music, Luci uses the opportunity to continue to test McCoy.

Tasha can’t help but chortle at the doctor’s dogged but awkward play at being a twentieth century man. She scans the rest of the bar, listening with pleasant interest at the band’s soulful tunes. Something of the melodies hit her emotionally, stirring her memories in new ways. 

When they finish their latest number, the bandleader and pianist gets up from her seat and faces the room. 

“I see we have someone special here tonight,” she says warmly. “What do you say, Bessie. Want to give this crowd a thrill?” Ginger asks Bessie playfully.

The two women at her table stop talking and look at Bessie expectantly, their diamond earrings sparking in the dim light. Bessie stands, her chest forward. She casually removes her fur coat and approaches the stage to the hearty whoops of the crowd. 

Luci clasps her hands together and waits expectantly with the rest of the crowd for the band to commence.

_ I hate to see the evenin’ sun go down.  _

_ I hate to see the evenin’ sun go down. _

_ It makes me think I’m on my last go ‘round. _

Bessie draws out each word, the trumpet answering her phrase for phrase. Something in Tasha stirs, as if the music is telling a story she knows well. And though the lyrics tell of a lover jilted by her man, Tasha understands that the sorrow she sings is bigger than a love gone wrong. Tasha leans in, dumbstruck, existing now in two different times.

It’s a revelation.

“What’s with you,” McCoy whispers, giving her the side eye. Where the patrons around them are swaying and vocally reacting to the music, Tasha is silent, as though in a trance. Something about her look concerns him and he is making it no secret.

“It’s ironic, Sir,” she says evenly after a while, deflecting for the moment. “The only reason I’m in this situation is because I was trying to avoid attending a jazz performance tonight. And here I am in 1929. In a speakeasy in Chicago and listening to Bessie Smith.” She chortles.

“That’s not jazz,” snarls McCoy softly, but pointedly. “That's the blues, girl.” His accent is even thicker than usual. Tasha follows his glowing eyes back to the woman bearing Tasha’s soul on the stage.

The blues.


	5. St. Louis Blues

_ Feeling' tomorrow like I feel today _

_ Feeling' tomorrow like I feel today _

_ I'll pack my grip and make my getaway _

Tasha can feel each and every extended note as Bessie sings about the pain of being left behind. She is transported home again, alone and unprotected and responsible for her baby sister. She has no time to mourn her parents because she must be a parent now herself. Bessie somehow knows her story, Tasha is sure. 

“What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?” McCoy asks when the song changes into a lewder, more lighthearted number. The crowd responds to the shift in mood easily, getting louder as they speak.

“Just thinking about home, Sir,” Tasha answers. Her eyes are still glued on Bessie as she moves her generous upper body suggestively to the delight of the audience. Tasha is captivated. 

“Where are you from?” he asks casually but delicately, while Luci’s attention is on the show. “I take it you’re not from Earth.”

“What gave you that idea?” Tasha knows where this is going, but isn’t surprised that he has figured it out. She breaks her gaze from the stage and looks at McCoy.

“You just seem like you haven’t spent much time here, that’s all,” he says, trying to de-escalate the panic he sees brewing in her eyes. 

“Well, you’re right,” she sighs. “I’m from a failed colony.” She has to be careful not to give him too much information about the future. “My only experience of Earth was the Academy. So my knowledge of the place is limited to what I learned there.” Tasha is fighting the urge to flee from this conversation. She's no coward. 

“So you didn’t get much Earth history there, I take it? Your home planet, I mean.” He sips on his drink.

Tasha gives McCoy a sardonic laugh. “Well I didn’t really have much time for school what with all the running from rape gangs,” she blurts, getting suddenly embarrassed at how easily she revealed her past to the doctor.  _ It must be the alcohol _ , she thinks ruefully. She assumes McCoy, as a medical professional, now thinks he knows everything about her. McCoy had perceived her reactions to the gang members earlier. The fact that she ended up in security should be no surprise to him. 

“That must’ve been difficult,” is all he says, though, approaching her trauma with care.

“It was,” Tasha answers. Then she returns her attention back to Bessie and the conversation is over.

***

The crowd is outright rowdy by the time Bessie finishes her set. She emerges from the stage and through the haze of smoke back to her seat, her companions smiling as she rejoins them. She squeezes one of them, a lanky woman with dark brown skin and a sweet smile.

Tasha sips her mint julep, only her second of the night. It’s enough to loosen her inhibitions, though. She leans with her back against the bar and watches Bessie with brazenly indecent eyes. 

In another time, she wouldn’t hesitate to swagger over and introduce herself. But the way Luci talks, Tasha gets the distinct impression that interactions are limited between the two factions here, black and white. People from the Earth of her time often make a big deal about how humans have conquered their divisions on their home planet, but Tasha has lived a life more akin to this Earth. She understands arbitrary bigotry and the ways the powerful use senseless hatred to exploit those they deem others. 

Except in this situation, she is not perceived as the one who will be preyed upon, but as the predator. She feels this reality keenly with each passing brown eye. Expecting hostility, those around her treat her suspiciously, as if they expect her to strike at any moment. 

She takes another sip, cementing her feet in place. But she can’t take her eyes off Bessie. She knows she is being completely inappropriate, even without Bessie’s companions shifting uncomfortably under her gaze.

_ They think I’m a man _ , Tasha reflects.  _ A white man, not to mention a gangster. _

Tasha turns back to face the bar. The quartet is playing a lively new set, and the club has only gotten more crowded as the night wears on. The cigarette smoke, only a haze an hour earlier, is now a fog. Tasha sneezes.

She scans the speakeasy with her tricorder covertly before stepping outside for fresh air. There had been no sign of the “Martians'' yet, though Luci assured them that members of the Outfit could still show well into the morning hours. She suppresses a yawn and leans against the cold wall behind the speakeasy, in a deserted and barely lit alley. Merry voices echo occasionally off the brick structures around her; footsteps clack and reverberate in the darkness.

She checks her tricorder every now and then, her senses sharpened out of habit in this unknown territory. A place gangsters and aliens are known to frequent. Federation time travelers, too now, she supposes. 

The door behind abruptly opens and three women spill out, laughing and swaying as they walk. Bessie is humming gaily, wrapped in an expensive fur coat. Tasha recognizes her immediately and stands upright out of habit, her heart thrumming in her chest.

Bessie’s round face, surrounded by plush fur, suddenly turns in her direction. She looks Tasha firmly in the face, face turning red in the dim street light. 

Tasha wants to turn away, but she is so taken off guard by Bessie’s unexpected appearance that she is caught in the same highly inappropriate leer. 

Bessie wastes no time and rushes her without warning, stepping unafraid into Tasha’s personal space. Tasha now understands that Bessie has indeed led a rough life, as she displays the same physical courage as any Starfleet security personnel in the face of danger. Here is a woman unafraid of taking a punch or of giving one, for that matter. 

“I don’t know who you think you are, but you best get any ideas out of that head of yours. I won’t let no white man make my girls uncomfortable.” Bessie’s eyes fiercely lock Tasha’s and Tasha’s knees go weak. 

Tasha gives Bessie a bashful, wide grin. “I apologize, ma’am,” Tasha says, still smiling and trying desperately to avert her eyes. “I just. I’ve never heard anyone sing like that.” 

When Bessie hears Tasha’s voice, she looks confused, but only for a moment. She leans into Tasha’s space again, but this time to stare closely at every detail of her fine features, her smooth cheeks. Finally, she steps back somewhat and abruptly places her right hand squarely on Tasha’s chest, where her right breast is bound behind the corset.

Tasha blushes silently, as Bessie feels the outline of the undergarment. Her friends look on with shock as Bessie bursts out in a loud, good-natured laughter. 

Tasha is frozen in place, piqued by her inability to respond.

Bessie is still laughing, now wiping her eyes. “Girl, you had me there for a minute. What’re you doing dressed up like that?” She looks at Tasha curiously again, a random chuckle slipping out here and there, oblivious to the crossing of boundaries. Tasha isn’t sure if she should hold it against her. The touch wasn’t unwelcome, just unexpected. She feels so lost in this ancient Earth culture that she thinks it’s even possible that this behavior is normal for this time. And she is still staring at Bessie with the eyes of a lovesick sailor. 

“What’s your name, Sugar?” Bessie asks this time, when Tasha doesn’t respond.

Tasha collects herself and finally answers. “Tasha Yar, Ms. Smith.” She feels unnaturally stiff, even for her, her back straight and muscles tense. Starfleet theory never prepared her for the reality of a moment like this. Trying to regain her cocky persona, she grabs the lapel of her jacket and runs her fingers down to the taper. “Do you like it? My friend fixed it up for me. We’re, ah, playing a practical joke,” she laughs weakly. “I didn’t mean to creep you out, earlier. Like I said, I’ve never heard anyone sing like that. It reminded me of home,” she adds softly, a transient flash of vulnerability she sharply suppresses or the chasm might swallow her whole. She straightens and wills herself to maintain eye contact.

Bessie regards Tasha for a moment, as if deciding what to do with her. Tasha is at a loss. She is not sure how she is supposed to behave when confronted by a historical figure, especially one so disarmingly attractive. But she’s pretty sure she shouldn’t be considering what is going through her brain right now. 

“Tasha Yar,” Bessie repeats finally. “What’re you doing on this side of town, Tasha? Because it looks like you are trying to pass as a gangster,” she adds.

Tasha tries to play it off like McCoy and flashes Bessie a “you got me” grin, desperately trying to come up with the details of her lie. The doctor seems to use real details about his own life in his tales to Luci, so she follows that example.

“I’m not from around here,” she explains, “so I don't know where I am or am not supposed to be, and this is as good a place as any.” Tasha shrugs and tries to appear unbothered. “I’m from overseas.” She pauses. “Far,  _ far _ away.” 

“Mhm,” Bessie answers, inspecting the fit of Tasha’s suit.

Tasha is about to reply when two ground vehicles suddenly pull up to the alley outside Ginger’s. The two white men in matching pinstripe suits and brimmed hats get out of the front car and walk towards their small party. Tasha notices the bulges in their coats and instinctively reaches for the weapon underneath her own jacket, then decides against it. She cannot reveal her technology. She unbuttons her jacket and steadies her stance instead. 

The men walk with authority and menace, a deadly swagger. Tasha’s muscles go taut and she steps back to hide herself partially in the shadows. 

“Bessie Smith,” one of the gangsters announces boldly. Tasha can see the malice behind his eyes. 

_ Not a Martian,  _ she thinks grimly. There is nothing inhuman in his gaze. Her eyes flit to the tinted windows of the second car.

The other man keeps a lookout while the first advances. The second car stays silent.

“Mr. Capone heard you were town,” the gangster continues. “He’s a great admirer.” The complement somehow sounds like a threat. “He’d like to meet you.”

When Bessie simply stares back at him with her own condescending scorn, he adds “Now,” and grabs her by the arm forcefully. 

Tasha steps out from the shadows. When the gangster notices Tasha, his sneer turns to mild alarm. Bessie takes advantage of the diversion and slugs the man square in the eye. He stumbles back at the unexpected blow and Tasha uses his momentum against him, using a Klingon martial arts move to flip him violently against the hard packed snow. He stays down.

His companion rushes her, a switchblade in hand. “North Sider scum,” he hisses vehemently. “What’s the matter? Enough of you didn’t die today?” He chuckles as he moves towards her, brandishing his weapon dangerously. 

Tasha puts herself between the gangster and Bessie, dodging his strike and countering with a swift palm upward against his nose.

He drops the knife and howls in pain, blood seeping through his fingers as he cradles his broken nose. Then Tasha dislocates his left knee with the heel of her shoe and lands a heavy blow to his temple with her elbow. He crashes to the cold ground and doesn’t get up. 

When the second man goes down, two more gangsters bolt out of the other car. Tasha notices that they are different immediately. They move with efficiency, their dead eyes staring out at nothing or no one in particular.  _ Martians _ .

Tasha knows without looking what her tricorder is reading right now.

The  _ Martians _ pretending to be men have come armed, their machine guns pointed directly at Tasha and Bessie.

“Come with us, now,” the one with a thick mustache orders flatly at Bessie and her two friends. “Mr. Capone is waiting.” The other, baby-faced and olive skinned, keeps his gun trained on Tasha. 

Bessie looks back at Tasha with fear as she is ushered into the back of the car with her companions, who have both started to cry. Then the two men get into the front and drive away, their tires peeling.

Tasha pulls out her tricorder and confirms her suspicions. Chroniton radiation. She conceals it back inside her jacket before rushing back into the speakeasy to find McCoy. The bouncer remembers her and lets her back inside without having to recite the code, which Tasha has already forgotten.

McCoy is still at his seat at the bar, chatting amiably with Luci. His face is red, and Tasha suspects it is from more than the bootleg liquor in his cup. 

She approaches them swiftly, but not at a pace that would alert the attention of those around them. McCoy knows something is wrong immediately.

“What is it?” he asks, rising from his seat. Then he looks at Tasha with eyes that ask  _ Did you see them? _

“It’s Bessie,” Tasha says, to McCoy’s surprise. “ _ Capone _ ’s men have her.” Luci chokes on her cocktail when she hears this. Tasha can see that McCoy catches her drift. “Come on! We have to follow them.”

“I don’t know, Tasha,” Luci answers worriedly. “We shouldn’t get involved with Capone or his guys.” She looks back and forth between Tasha and McCoy. The trumpet player blares a soulful melody behind them.

“That’s what I said to the Doc when he ran to help you,” Tasha says crisply. “Should we have left you there too, even though you needed our help?”

Luci swallows then stands resolutely. “What are we waiting for then?” she asks. “I know where his headquarters is. I could take you there if we had a car,” she muses.

“We have a car,” Tasha replies, thinking of the two unconscious men outside with satisfaction. Their car was still parked outside when Tasha came to retrieve McCoy.

When they follow Tasha out and pass the two men lying in the snow, Luci gulps audibly and looks at Tasha again with new respect. 

“Do you know how to drive it?” Tasha asks Luci, pointing to the parked vehicle.

Luci laughs and shakes her head.

Tasha turns to McCoy. “What about you, Doctor?” 

“I can drive the ground transports back home. How hard could it be?” McCoy returns and strides confidently behind the wheel. Luci looks at them both uncertainly before getting into the front seat next to him. Tasha joins them in the back.

“The key’s there,” exclaims Luci, pointing to the ancient ignition. McCoy turns it clockwise and the car’s engine comes awake with a roar.

“Combustion,” tsks McCoy, shaking his head with judgment. 

“Which way Luci?” Tasha asks impatiently, pulling out her tricorder just the same. The readings lead west, in the same direction Luci points.

The doctor pulls the vehicle into the street with a jerk and tentatively makes his way down the empty, gas-lit streets, in the direction of this time’s most notorious gangster. Al Capone.


	6. After You’ve Gone

_Now listen honey while I say_

_How can you tell me that you're going away?_

_Don't say that we must part_

_Don't break my achin' heart_

**Cicero**

The journey isn’t smooth. McCoy’s boastfulness turns out to have been premature. After about ten minutes, though, he seems to get a better handle on the primitive controls and they plod steadily over the bumpy brick streets. Eventually they make it to a main thoroughfare, a wider concrete road, as they travel west, their backs to the city. McCoy increases their speed. 

Luci watches McCoy at the wheel in the darkness. Though Tasha’s tricorder is making a steady series of beeps and clicks, she makes no comment. Tasha hopes that is because she cannot hear it over the roar of the ancient engine.

They travel due west for another ten minutes, one of only a spare few cars on the unlit road. Tasha is grateful for this, as McCoy struggles to keep the car in a straight line. Judging by Luci’s taunt muscles, Tasha is sure she feels the same. The only light comes from the headlight beaming ahead. 

Finally, Luci instructs McCoy to pull over along the side of a bustling storefront. Armed men in pin striped suits stand idly by a doorway in the middle of a red brick structure with white trim. A vertical rectangular sign with the word HOTEL in large white letters hangs to the right, while another with HAWTHORNE RESTAURANT can be seen further off. 

When they exit the car, Luci points to the closest door, the one that bears the banner THE GREYHOUND. Light streams through the large glass windows of the private club. Inside, Tasha can see the backs of Bessie and her friends surrounded by large white men wearing their gangster uniforms, who are facing the outside. The big and balding one in the center is smiling ingratiatingly at Bessie as she gesticulates and shouts. He has an apple shaped body, a round face, and a long scar running down the left side of his jaw. 

There is a clear chroniton signature coming from the club.

“Scarface,” gasps McCoy, recognizing Al Capone at once.

“Don’t call him that to his face,” warns Luci, who is visibly nervous.

McCoy nods silently, not taking his eyes off Capone. 

Tasha surveys the scene. She sees the three men leaning against walls and lamp posts near the entrance who must surely be guards. There is also a bouncer standing at the door, confronting everyone who tries to enter. Gangsters rove in and out of the lively club, a live band playing a lively jazz tune. 

“What now?” Tasha asks Luci, who is peering closely at the bouncer at the door.

“That’s Saul,” she points. “We go way back. I dance at a lot of the shows he attends. To tell the truth, I think he has a crush on me.” She hesitates before continuing. “Listen, i think we should tell them the truth.”

When Tasha and McCoy look at her with alarm, she chuckles and goes on. “A _version_ of the truth. You’re a doctor. That’s true,” she says to McCoy. “And you are going to great lengths to avoid attention,” she observes. “I’m going to tell them that you saved me from the shooting yesterday. That you are on the lam and you need somewhere to lay low. And you offer your services,” she explains. “Capone will want to feel you out, so he’ll invite you to his party.” She stops. “But this is dangerous. Capone means business and if he thinks you are a North Sider or a cop, he’ll take you to his basement to torture you before he has you killed. Are you sure you want to do this?” She bites her lower lip. 

“Of course we do,” Tasha answers, “but won’t this get you into trouble if we suddenly disappear?”

“Disappear?” Luci asks. She narrows her eyes at them and points at the bulge in her jacket from her tricorder. “I know what you are,” she proclaims. “You can’t hide your fancy gadgets from me, Tash. Are you here to arrest the _Martians_ or something like that?” Her eyes bore into Tasha. Tasha looks helplessly at McCoy.

“Now see here, young lady,” McCoy starts. “I told you - there are no aliens on Mars.” He sets his jaw and looks her straight in the eye.

 _Not yet anyway_ , Tasha thinks wryly. The massive colony and shipyard on Mars hosts a variety of species in her time. 

Luci sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Whatever you say.”

“Is this going to get you into trouble, Luci?” Tasha repeats. 

“I don’t think so. I’ll just play dumb. Like I was just a poor dupe. Saul will believe me.” Luci seems convinced, though Tasha wonders how anyone could ever believe this clever girl stupid. 

“OK, then,” she answers, after McCoy nods his assent, “We’ll let you do the talking.” And she gestures Luci towards the front door.

The outside guards eye them as they approach Saul, who gives them an OK nod when he recognizes Luci. He is a large white man man, perhaps 6’2”, wearing a dark gray heavy coat over a black three piece suit and a matching black brimmed hat. A shotgun is leaning within reach next to him. 

“Luci,” Saul says flatly. Though his expression is even, his eyes give him away, as the stoic man’s gaze becomes instantly tender at Luci’s advance.

Luci smiles warmly, while Tasha and McCoy remain expressionless at her side.

“Saul. Been awhile.” she says coyly. “I noticed you don’t come by Ginger’s no more.”

“As you can see,” Saul answers, straightening his back, “the boss put me on security. We’re in the middle of a war, if you haven't noticed.” He lights a cigarette. “Who are your pals here?”

“Saul, let me introduce you to Doctor McCoy and his associate Tash. They saved my life yesterday morning on Clarke Street.”

“You were on Clarke Street yesterday?”

Luci nods. “I was there. You should have told me something was going on Saul.” She hits him lightly on the arm. He grows red. “I woulda got shot if McCoy and Tash hadn’t pulled me away. Listen, I want them to meet the boss. I think he’ll find them useful.”

Saul narrows his eyes, and Tasha can feel him scrutinizing her. 

“They look like North Siders to me.” He spits. “Or worse, Feds.”

Tasha meets his level gaze coolly, no trace of the racing heart beneath her carefully tailored suit.

“Saul! Baby! Do you really think I’d bring the enemy to your doorstep? You know better than anyone that I can smell a rat from a mile away.” She straightens his lapel and tie. 

Saul’s attention snaps to Luci. Tasha is impressed at his restraint as he says “You’ll have to turn over your piece before you come inside.”

“I’m just a country doctor,” answers McCoy. “I don’t have a piece,” he lies. Tasha doubts that Saul would recognize their phasers as weapons. “All I’ve got is my medical bag and this toy I picked up for my nephew. He likes those fantastic stories in the pulps.” As if reading Tasha’s mind, he produces his phaser for Saul, turning it over for his inspection, and allows him to frisk his pockets. Saul pays the phaser scant attention.

Tasha wordlessly follows suit, emptying her pockets and pulling out her more compact phaser for inspection. It looks nothing like the clunky metal guns the gangsters carry. 

Satisfied, Saul sighs and allows them to proceed inside. Tasha and McCoy enter, but Saul pulls Luci back. She waves them ahead. 

Tasha takes her bearings inside the swanky headquarters and speakeasy. The front door opens into a large swanky dining room, and a raised dance floor and stage beyond. There are perhaps two dozen armed gangsters milling about in Tasha’s immediate view. Women with rosy cheeks and light skin, wearing glittery short dresses under luxurious fur coats, hang on their arms or lounge in groups around the premises. The waitstaff, men in white tuxedos, mingle among the tables with their heavy trays while the working women weave in and out throughout searching for unaccompanied men. She can hear shouting and the sound of gambling in the distance, winners and losers broadcasting their luck. A suffocating haze of cigar smoke and unfiltered cigarettes hovers like a ghostly nebula around them. She sneezes.

McCoy points out the coat check and they enter the club after making their stolen deposits. Tasha looks through the crowd until she finds Bessie, who is now laughing heartily among her friends, a flask in hand. She is indifferent to the swarm of white men and women hovering around them. Capone himself has the look of a man who has just gotten his way, his scar bending to his conceited smile.

Seeing Bessie safe and unharmed, Tasha turns her attention to her tricorder, which is signaling the presence of a large amount of chroniton radiation further into the club. They are close. There is no danger of anyone noticing the tricorder’s beeping over the loud ambient noise. Between the blaring phonograph, the gangsters and their guests’ loud laughter, and the live band setting up ahead, no one but Tasha could hear it.

McCoy steps quietly behind her, looking over her shoulder at the instrument, eyebrow arching. 

“Looks like we found our _Martians_ ,” he says wryly, eying Luci as she moves casually from Saul to the coat check, greeting those she passes like a regular. They haven’t discussed how they are going to explain all of this to her. She had already come dangerously close to the truth, though Tasha wondered what harm a showgirl like Luci could bring to the timeline if they came clean. One thing is for sure, though. Luci will take their vague answers only so much longer, especially now that they are heading straight into a den of unknown aliens. The actual gangsters are another matter.

Tasha nods towards the back bar and casino. They will have to cross the scattered tables and milling gangsters and push their way past the dance floor, now gathering bodies as the band starts to warm up. Tasha sneezes again.

McCoy, arching an eyebrow, looks at her with his physician’s eyes. “It’s like they all have a death wish,” he grumbles, pulling out a hypospray and furtively administering its dose through her clothes.

Tasha feels the relief immediately, her allergies abated.

Luci arrives just as McCoy is returning the tech back to his bag. They both give her wide, innocent smiles as she approaches but she just rolls her eyes. 

“Looks like Bessie landed on her feet,” Luci says, nodding to Bessie’s small party. Capone is standing at their table now with his shark’s grin, gesturing respectfully towards the stage. The band’s cacophonous warm up stills as Bessie and Capone take the stage. 

Tasha’s feet do not want to move.

“Let’s go Lieutenant,” whispers McCoy. “We have to find our ride back home.” 

Reluctantly, Tasha turns her attention to the back room and leads the party through the rambunctious and inebriated crowd. Capone is at the microphone introducing Bessie Smith to the crowd, and the ambient noise only gets louder. Glancing at her hidden tricorder, Tasha pushes forward.

When Bessie’s blues fill the club, Tasha almost stops. But the mission must come first. Aliens have infiltrated earth and seem to be playing with the timeline. She cannot let this continue, even as the music calls to her.

Tasha scans the room for _Martians_ when they enter the gambling den. The chroniton readings are buzzing but Tasha sees no sign of the dead-eyed gangsters. 

“Come on, let’s get a drink,” Luci suggests, starting towards the backroom bar, where wait staff in all white weave in and out between the tables bringing drinks to the gambling patrons. Now that Bessie and the band are performing, it is difficult to hear her.

When they sit down at the bar, the bartender gives them a wide grin, giving Tasha the impression that he has been waiting for them. Like the waiters, he is in all white, a pair of black suspenders visible under his long jacket. He has olive skin, a black bushy mustache, his hair a mass of curls under a crisp black bowler hat.

“Ah, yes!” the bartender exclaims warmly, “Lieutenant Yar and Doctor McCoy. Welcome at last!” He begins to pour their drinks, and eyes Luci with curiosity. 

Tasha and McCoy look at each other quizzically. 

“You know this guy?” Luci asks suspiciously, looking between them all.

“No,” Tasha and McCoy say in unison.

“Who are you?” Tasha asks fiercely, feeling for her phaser. “Are you the one who brought us here?”

“Easy now, Lieutenant,” he answers, pouring a drink for another patron. “There is no need for violence.” He uses the towel over his shoulder to wipe the counter. “You may call me the Host,” he glances again at Luci, who is observing the situation with interest. “And, no, Lieutenant, I didn’t bring you here, precisely. It’s more like you wandered in.” 

Just then, two gangsters approach the bar and quietly consult with the Host. Tasha can see immediately that they are Luci’s _Martians_. Without another word, they stonily walk with the Host to a room behind the bar, the unnaturalness of their eyes grotesque in the dim bar light. Moments later, Tasha notices a familiar blue-green light flash in the space under the door before the Host reemerges alone.

Luci’s eyes go wide before they narrow. She looks calmly between the Host and the Federation officers, her jaw set.

“What were those guys?” Luci demands. “What’s going on here?” She turns pleading eyes to McCoy, who smiles weakly at her charm.

Tasha cannot blame the man. The Host seems to be just as concerned about Luci’s presence in this conversation as they are, so she presses on.

“Host,” Tasha says, ignoring Luci, “If you didn’t bring us here, does that mean you are willing to send us back?” Tasha doesn’t feel like beating around the bush. 

“Now just hold on,” interrupts McCoy. “The lady asked a question, and I for one want answers.” McCoy’s face turns a dark shade of red. “What’s going on here? Why are you _here_? And how did you know our names?” 

The Host understands McCoy's meaning, smiling ingratiatingly, as though he were _their_ Host, welcoming them to their own Earth. _McCoy’s Earth, anyway_ , Tasha thinks.

“I mean you and your friends no harm, Doctor.” He looks kindly at Luci as he says this, as if she is dear to him. “My...friends and I are simply visitors, here to explore the local sights.” The innocence in his voice is almost disarming, but Tasha knows better than to trust a silver tongue. “Chicago is quite the city, don’t you think?”

“But your friends aren’t just exploring Chicago, are they?” Tasha asks rhetorically. 

“Quite right,” confirms the Host. “Both your ships are a popular destination, though I had to shut down those operations once I realized you had wandered into my _gate_. We monitor our stay scrupulously, Lieutenant. We protect your time, even as we fulfil the curiosity of our people.”

“Protect our time? How can you say that with your men walking around like gangsters?” McCoy asks, indignant. “Not to mention the _Enterprise_.”

Both Tasha and McCoy are studiously avoiding Luci’s eyes. She had already accused them of being time travelers. 

“With all due respect, Doctor,” answers the Host obsequiously, bowing his head slightly. “But the only ones who have endangered the natural order is you.” His eyes rest on Luci, the implication clear. McCoy had interfered by treating Luci’s wounds.

“But your men,” accused Tasha. “They kidnapped Bessie.” She stares at him defiantly.

“Only after you interfered, my Dear. It was always supposed to be the Outfit who took her. My _men_ were only ensuring the proper outcome.” Bile forms at the back of Tasha’s mouth. She feels sick. The Host smiles at her without a trace of judgment.

“If you're with those other guys, why do you look so normal and why do they look so wrong?” Luci interjects. “And where are you visiting from?” Her eyes are wide as she leans forward into the bar, as if her whole body is asking the question.

The Host smiles warmly. “We haven’t met yet,” he says simply. It is somehow enough. “We avoid first contact with linear species,” he explains to Tasha and McCoy. Luci reacts as if he has just spoken a different language. “As for my friends,” he continues, “their approximations were not engineered for them as mine was. A proxy is a delicate affair. It is an imperfect technology. I cannot discuss it further. You of all people understand.” His look is knowing again. 

“We know how to detect you now,” Tasha says, matter of fact. “Starfleet is not going to like the idea of your people _visiting_ ours without introducing yourselves first, whatever your intentions.” 

The Host bows in sad acknowledgement. 

Tasha crosses her arms and looks at McCoy dubiously. He returns her gaze.

The Host simply laughs. “As you say, Lieutenant, you know how to find us. We will not risk exposure.” Tasha somehow believes his simple logic. 

The band plays on, and the gamblers and gangsters continue chasing their luck around them. It’s as if their small party isn’t there at all. Tasha senses an unseen technology must be at hand.

“I assume you would like to return to the _Enterprise_ ,” the Host says to each. The Host speaks as if it is one ship, Mccoy’s _Enterprise_ and her own. “I can arrange it at any time.”

Tasha and McCoy look at each other, surprised. Bessie’s soulful voice carries over the band, even without a microphone. The regulations would tell them not to linger.

_Screw regulations._

“I’d like to stay for one more song, Sir,” she says to McCoy, her cheeks a tinge of pink. 

“And a dance,” McCoy says grinning and taking Luci’s arm as she looks at him pleasantly surprised.

The Host gestures towards the dancefloor hospitably. 

The song is defiant, even as Tasha can feel the pain that pushes that defiance forward. 

_There ain't nothing I can do, or nothing I can say_

_That folks don't criticize me_

_But I'm goin' to do just as I want to anyway_

_And don't care if they all despise me_

_If I should take a notion_

_To jump into the ocean_

_'Tain't nobody's bizness if I do, do, do do_

Tasha catches Bessie’s eye from the audience and winks at Bessie’s smile. When the song is over, she tips her hat at Bessie and pulls McCoy from Luci’s arms. The music is a siren, tempting the shipwrecked sailors. Tasha can feel the danger of it. Music like this simply does not exist anymore in their time. The notes may be there, but not the feeling. There is only one Empress of the Blues. There is only one Bessie Smith. She wonders if the Host would force them back, if only to protect their own timeline. 

They walk, shoulders sunk, back to the Host and the waiting backroom beyond. 

“So, you’re just going with Martians?” Luci looks at them, unable to hide her disappointment.

“They aren’t Martians, Luci,” McCoy says fondly. “And we don’t belong here. I think you know that.” They stare at each other meaningfully for a moment.

“I will send you home first, Doctor,” the Host says, gesturing for McCoy to follow him to the room behind the bar.

He kisses Luci’s hand. “You would have made a great Mrs. McCoy,” he says sadly, before turning to Tasha. 

“It was an honor, Lieutenant,” he says, a twinkle in his eye. Tasha smiles at the adventures she knows lay ahead of him.

“The honor was mine, Doctor,” she says, taking his outstretched hand. 

Bessie wails out a sorrowful tune.

It is only a few moments and a flash of light before the Host emerges again and it is her turn. 

Tasha smiles at Luci and takes both of her hands.

“Thank you for everything, Luci.” 

“Bye Tash,” she answers warmly. Tasha can see the connections forming in her mind.

Tasha follows the Host to a simple supply closet that smells of stale beer and body odor. She crinkles her nose.

The Host smiles at her apologetically as he shuts the door behind him. He pulls a datapad from his apron and punches in his directions.

“ _USS Enterprise D_ , 2364, Starbase 36.” He swipes his screen at each detail. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant, you won’t feel a thing.”

Tasha is not reassured. Especially after she sees a brown eye peeking through the crack in the door behind the Host as she is enveloped in the blue-green light.

***

**Enterprise D, 2364, Cargo Bay 3**

The light deposits her on the floor of the cargo bay inelegantly, and she snaps awake sprawled and sore, Commander Data’s feet standing at her side.

“Lt. Yar?” Data cocks his head slightly to the side mimicking human inquiry. “You disappeared on the sensors.” He taps his datapad. “Interesting.”

“You have no idea, Data,” Tasha says, picking herself up. “I have to see the Captain.”

Twenty minutes later, she is still in Picard’s ready room.

“We can’t have these time tourists cosplaying as Starfleet officers, whether they respect the temporal prime directive or not,” Picard says indignantly. He started pacing soon after Tasha began her report.

Tasha says nothing. She can still hear Bessie singing.

“But still,” he says getting up from his seat and straightening his jacket, “you’ve had quite the adventure, Lieutenant. To think, you met Leonard McCoy in his prime and traveled together to Earth 1929.” Picard shakes his head wistfully. “I look forward to your full report.”

Tasha smiles to herself. “Aye Sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Tasha leaves the Captain’s office, her mind still hovering between the present and the past. When she arrives at her quarters, she checks the time. It’s not too late.

“Tasha to Jin,” she calls over the Starbase intercom.

She isn’t too late after all. Jin has not yet left for the performance tonight, so Tasha arranges to meet her in her quarters in half an hour for their date. It is enough time to take a sonic shower and replicate a new suit. She chooses one in the same style as the one Luci gave her, though it is better fitting. She keeps the hat.

After she is washed and dressed, she turns to leave her quarters, but pauses before she goes.

“Computer. Tell me what happened to Luci Moore of Chicago, 1929. She was a showgirl and lived on South State Street.” Tasha bites her lip.

“Lucille Moore, born 1905, died 2001. Wrote under the pen name Luci Stardust. Published over a hundred works of short fiction in the mid 20th century, focusing on themes of time travel and extraterrestrial life.” 

Tasha smiles with satisfaction. Then she adjusts her hat and saunters out of her quarters, humming the blues. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this fic are largely made up. There was a gang shoot out in February 1929 (The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre), but Al Capone never kidnapped Bessie Smith. He did, however, once kidnap a pianist named Fats Waller and paid him to play a multi-day party at his headquarters in 1926, which is what I based the events of this story on.


End file.
